


Between Everything, Yourself, and Home

by desperately_human



Category: Schouwendam 12
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Spoilers for everything, it's actually kind of sweet, it's really only upsetting because we know what's coming, so all warnings apply but also, this is like SIGNIFICANTLY before canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25042015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desperately_human/pseuds/desperately_human
Summary: This is just a thing. It takes place early on when Narrator and Olaf are backpacking together and it's a little sad but also sweet and that makes it sad.One of the many scenes about these people I messed around with in my head but was kind of proud of how it turned out.
Relationships: Narrator/Olaf Witte





	Between Everything, Yourself, and Home

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this I love you  
> If you're Frobisher and Cosmo and you're reading this I write to make you smile (well, often cry)

“No,” Olaf says clearly, enough to shake him out of his light, exhausted sleep. He sits up, seeking out his companion in the dark, Olaf turns his head, tangled up in the sheets, murmurs something unintelligible but with pain coursing through it. He gets up, crosses the room and sits on the edge of Olaf’s bed, touching his shoulder and catching the words “can’t be dead” as he thrashes in the sheets.

“Lucas,” he says, shaking his shoulder, “wake up.” Olaf swings blindly at him but misses with his hand tangled among the sheets, still at least half asleep.

“Shut up” comes a voice from elsewhere in the darkness of the room they share with the other backpackers. He tucks his legs up and slots himself in next to Olaf on the narrow bed, gripping his shoulders.

“Lucas, you’re dreaming,” shakes him, he hopes not too hard. Olaf wakes up with a sharp breath, open eyes staring confused into his for a moment before he signs and falls back against the pillows. He feels Olaf’s shoulders still shaking beneath his hands. “Shhh,” he says, thinking of all the times he’s comforted Sophie when she sobs too hard to breathe, “Easy, easy. Just a dream.”

“Thanks” says Olaf, untold minutes later when his breathing has slowed. “Sorry.” He settles back against the pillows, watching Olaf’s face in profile in the soft light from the streetlamp outside, watching him blink. He should go back to his own bed, leave Olaf alone to work through his fear and embarrassment, to pretend tomorrow this never happened, but he doesn’t want to. Olaf reminds him of Sophie, sometimes, and sometimes not at all, and he wants to lean over in the dark and trace a finger down his forehead, his nose, his lips. Olaf shifts onto his side, eye to eye with him now, his forehead wrinkled in thought. He looks different.

“Can you even see me, without your glasses?” he asks, voice a bare whisper, and Olaf swallows a laugh, catching it on his tongue before it slips out to into the quiet room.

“Yes,” replies Olaf, smiling, “you’re very close.” He breaks off, swallows. They lie there, it’s quiet enough that he can hear their breathing synchronize, can still feel out of breath even though he knows he isn’t. Quiet enough that he can take in the shape of Olaf’s cheekbones, his chin, his mouth, gets a little lost before glancing back up to Olaf’s eyes, watching closely. They lie there in that frozen moment, waiting, still breathing.

“I’m not very brave, actually,” he says, hoping it makes sense, licking his suddenly dry lips and watching Olaf’s eyes follow his tongue.

“You’re going to have to be braver than me,” Olaf says after a moment, in the quiet, in the dark, and he hopes they’re understanding each other right or he’s going to fuck up everything. He leans forward, there’s so little space left, and kisses Olaf as gently as he can. His mind goes blank for a minute, and before he can follow a thread of thought long enough to overthink it, Olaf kisses back, tilts his head so their noses aren’t smashed together and slips an arm around his waist and, _oh_ , that’s so much better. He runs a hand through the roughness of Olaf’s beard and around to cradle his head, shifting closer, out of breath again but smiling like crazy.

He can’t remember what country they’re in but it doesn’t matter, it’s dark and quiet and the tight coil of anxiety he’s been fighting to ignore in his gut has finally loosened. They’re still kissing, softer now, and he feels himself slipping towards sleep, wraps himself tighter around Olaf’s sleep-warm body, lets things drift out of focus. In his mind days fly by, and years, they live in the black-and-white apartment with Sophie in Liege and he teaches Olaf to appreciate espresso and craft beer and clothes that aren’t gray t-shirts, and they’re warm and wrapped up in Sophie’s black silk sheets, and he never feels that put-his-hands-through-a-window boredom again, and Olaf makes Sophie smile when she can’t stop crying, and he never lets Olaf sleep through bad dreams, and none of them are ever lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> this one also has a title from a song by The National because that's my thing now I can't stop


End file.
